TESSIBEL AND ELSIE
Gloom lay over the Silent City.
Bitter hatred burned in the simple heart of every
squatter. Waldstricker’s open enmity had
expressed itself in a series of injuries, calculated
to enrage them. The shanty folk resented his
cruelty to Mother Moll. The destruction of her
shack promised a similar fate to their homes.
When the story of Waldstricker’s attack upon
Boy Skinner spread among them, fierce threats were
muttered at the fishing holes and by the firesides.
The wintry winds of the Storm Country, shrieking over
the desolate masses of ice and snow, were not more
fierce and cruel than the squatters’ demand for
vengeance. The daily bulletins of the little
one’s illness kept the interest alive and added
to the growing excitement and indignation.
Day after day, the doctor had come
to the Young home, each time shaking his head more
gravely. To Deforrest, the helpless witness of
the unfolding tragedy, the days and nights were but
a continuing torture. Andy Bishop stole about
the house like a small white ghost, waiting upon Tessibel
and Mother Moll. One morning, a few days before
Christmas, the doctor told Deforrest Young he considered
Boy beyond earthly help. And now it devolved
upon the lawyer to tell Tessibel she must lose her
baby.
He went softly to the sick room.
Whiter than the pillow upon which his cheek rested,
Boy lay relaxed, breathing rapidly. Tess stood
at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped loosely
in front of her. Anxious eyes turned to greet
Young. At the bedside the man stopped a moment
and looked down upon the little figure. Shocked
by the imminent signs of approaching dissolution,
he went over and placed an arm around the girl.
“He’s awful sick,”
Tess whispered. “What’d the doctor
say?”
“I’m afraid, Tess I’m
afraid,” he answered, unable to frame the medical
man’s decision.
Dawning comprehension and dismay struggled
in the young mother’s eyes, for the agonized
tones of the well-loved voice and the tender solicitude
of the supporting arms had put into Young’s halting
words the dread import of his message.
“You mean you mean ?”
she questioned.
“Tess, darling; my pretty child,” Young
murmured helplessly.
The red head dropped upon his chest
and for a moment Tess clung to him as though to find
protection from the menacing horror. Then she
freed herself, dropped on her knees by the bedside,
and rested her head on Boy’s little hand.
During the hours of watching she had striven to steel
herself against this possibility. But she couldn’t
understand. Boy, her cherished bit of living
joy and sunshine! What would become of him?
Separation? Yes, but where was he going?
She didn’t know. She couldn’t think.
A sudden shudder, a kind of voiceless sob shook her.
Young stood quietly by the bedside,
watching and waiting. His love for mother and
son centered all his thoughts in them. He shared
his darling’s grief and desired above everything
to console her; but the very depth of his sympathy
prevented him. Hopeless himself, in this grim
crisis, every human effort seemed futile.
Placing a tender hand on her shaking
shoulder, he bent down.
“My poor little girl!”
he breathed. “I wish I could help you some
way.”
“Nobody ... can.”
The hopeless despair of her voice made vocal the utter
desolation she felt.
A gentle movement of the little hand
against her face commanded Tessibel’s immediate
attention. She smoothed the pillow the while she
whispered softly little words of love to Boy.
Then she looked around at Young.
“Please tell Andy to fix the
kitchen fire,” she said, even at this time mindful
of her domestic duties.
“I’ll see to it myself,”
and he went out softly and down the stairs.
He found Andy in the sitting room.
“The doctor what’d the doctor
say?” the dwarf demanded.
“Go to ’er,” trembled Young.
“Brace her up all you can.”
The little man went slowly upstairs
and entered the sick chamber. Through the tears
in his eyes, he saw the dying babe in the white bed
and the young mother kneeling on the floor, the flaming
red of the clustering curls an incongruous note of
brilliant color.
Andy waddled across the room and knelt
down beside Tessibel. Lifting his arm he let
it fall across the girl’s shoulders. His
silent sympathy, always unselfish, never intruded.
Tess stared at Andy a moment, and then buried her
face in her hands upon the coverlet.
“He’s going away,”
she got out through her fingers. “Andy,
I can’t let ’im go!”
“I’ve been prayin’ for ’im,
Tess,” choked the dwarf.
The girl made no response, but to
show her friend she’d heard, one of her hands
sought and held his.
“If it air right for ’im
to stay, dear,” murmured Andy, “the good
God’ll help ’im.... Don’t ye
think so, Tess?”
“I don’t know, Andy.... I’m
afraid!... It’s too awful!”
“Kid, ye know it air true. You’ve
only to ask him,” Andy insisted.
A hopeless shake of the bowed head accompanied the
whispered answer.
“I can’t, Andy! I can’t!...
I’m so afraid!”
“What you ’fraid of, brat,
dear? Jesus air loving you same’s He did
in the shack. He got Daddy Skinner out of prison,
an’ he took care of me, didn’t he, huh?”
Maddened by suffering, she drew herself
impatiently, away from the dwarf.
“Don’t, Andy! I don’t want
to hear! He let Waldstricker whip my baby.”
Although the young mother could hear
the muttered prayers of the dwarf, no answering faith
came into her soul. Hot hatred of the man who’d
struck her son surged through her. Never again
would she think of him without the raging cry within
her for revenge. Her anger barbed the shafts
of his rancor and dulled her own understanding of Life
and Love. Resentment inhibited every constructive
effort. The courage, even the desire to fight
against death’s coming, was wanting.
“I hate ’im worse than anything in the
world,” she muttered.
“Yes, darlin’,” soothed the dwarf.
“I’d like to kill him.
Oh, I must do something ” She tried
to get to her feet, but Andy held her tightly.
“Stay here!” was all he said, and Tess
ceased to resist.
At midnight Boy died. He went
away very quietly, without a cry or struggle.
At the very last, he turned upon his side, looked into
his mother’s face, his eyes unshadowed and joyous.
He smiled a little, sighed with the passing breath,
“Mummy,” and sank to sleep. So dazed
was Tessibel that without protest she allowed Deforrest
to pick her from her knees and carry her out of the
room.
Mother Moll and Andy performed the
necessary services to the mortal clay that’d
been their darling. Loving fingers, tenderly touching
the delicate body, made Boy ready for the grave.
Through the stillness of the night, the sighing of
the ceaseless wind of the Storm Country, soughing
of death and desolation, called to their minds the
weird superstitions of squatter lore. The old
witch mumbled of signs, portends and warnings, and
uttered dire prophecies in which her wrath at Waldstricker
found expression.
While Tess and her squatter friends
were carrying Boy through the sullen cold to God’s
wind-swept half-acre, Ebenezer Waldstricker sat before
the glowing hickory logs in his sumptuous library.
Several letters in his morning mail required his presence
in the city. On the table before him lay a list
of things he intended to buy for little Elsie’s
Christmas.
Since the day he’d whipped Tessibel’s
son and forced his wife from his home he’d devoted
himself to the little girl. In spite of his best
efforts, the child’s grief for her mother had
driven him almost to his wits’ end. He’d
made up his mind to spare no expense to bring joy back
to his darling.
Whenever his mind reverted to the
scene at the lake he tried to justify his act in striking
the little fellow, but the news of Boy’s death
had, for a moment, given him an uncomfortable turn.
He hadn’t intended anything like that.
He wasn’t to blame! Probably the little
imp would have died anyway!
Helen had sent every day to ask after
Elsie, and the thought of his wife’s anxiety
pleased the elder. Perhaps, after a while, the
squatters, as well as the members of his own household,
would learn his word was law; that he would not allow
any of them to go against his will. Again and
again the corner curl of his lips showed his satisfaction.
Hearing the jingle of sleigh bells
at the door, he rose from his chair and slipped on
his great coat and cap.
“Daddy, bring mover back,”
quivered Elsie, when he kissed her good-bye.
Waldstricker stooped and gathered her into his arms.
“Daddy’ll bring Elsie
lots of pretty things, and so will Santa Claus.
He’s coming down the chimney tonight ”
“Elsie wants mover,” sobbed the little
one.
Ebenezer surrendered her to the nurse.
“Get her mind off crying,”
he said morosely. “Give her everything she
asks for.”
“I can’t,” muttered
the woman, and when the door had closed, “There,
there, child, don’t cry! Your mother’ll
be comin’ back some of these days.”
In the early afternoon Waldstricker
bought and packed into the sleigh all kinds of presents
for his daughter. His spirits rose when he thought
that her demands for her mother would be quieted on
Christmas Day.
It was quite dark when his powerful
team fought their way through the storm up to the
porch of the house. While the man was coming for
the horses he took the bundles from the sleigh.
At the door he met several white-faced servants.
“What’s the matter?”
he queried, relieving his arms of their load.
“The baby!... We can’t
find her.... She’s gone,” said a voice.
“Gone! Gone where?” roared Waldstricker.
“Nobody knows, sir,” gasped
the nurse. “She was in the library looking
at the pictures ”
Waldstricker brushed past the speaker.
He rushed through the house calling his child frantically.
In his wife’s sitting room he stopped, arrested
by an illuminating thought.
Helen had stolen the baby! He
drew a long breath that hissed through his teeth.
Of course, that was what had happened. Instant
anger filled his mind. He’d show her.
He wouldn’t stand it. He went below and
called the servants into his presence.
“Who was here this morning?” he questioned.
“Nobody.” Not one of them had seen
a person.
“Mrs. Waldstricker was here, wasn’t she?”
he insisted.
“No, Mrs. Waldstricker hasn’t been home
today.”
The elder set his grim lips and went
out again. Elsie was with her mother! That
Helen hadn’t been to the house didn’t prove
anything. She’d sent some one. Elsie
wouldn’t have gone away of her own accord.
When Ebenezer appeared at Madelene’s
home he was fuming with fury. His sister greeted
him cordially and ushered him into the drawing room.
“I’m glad you’ve
come, Ebenezer. Helen’s been crying ever
since she’s been here.”
“I’ll make her cry more
before I’m done with her,” gritted Waldstricker.
“But, Ebenezer, she’s
sick. And you were so cruel to send her away like
that.”
Waldstricker turned savagely upon
the speaker, hands working convulsively and face and
eyes ugly from fear and anger.
“Never mind about that now Where’s
Elsie?” he demanded. “I want her and
I want her right away.”
Madelene fell back a step, wax-white.
“Elsie!” she echoed. “Isn’t
she home?”
“Madelene,” Ebenezer began
in a deadening voice, “you know me well enough
not to play with me like this. Where’s my
daughter?”
Madelene’s hands came together.
“She’s not here!... She’s home,
Ebbie, dear, she must be!”
“She’s not!” fell from Waldstricker.
“Call Helen!”
“Helen can’t come down, Ebbie, she’s
in bed!”
“I’ll see her.”
Low thunder rolled in his tones. His sister grasped
his arm.
“Be kind to her, Ebbie, dear ”
“I’ll see her,” repeated Ebenezer,
not changing the tone of his voice.
Without another word, Madelene whirled
and went toward the stairs, the church elder following
his sister with slow tread.
Helen turned her tired, white face
to the visitors. At the sight of her husband
she sat up straight.
“Where’s Elsie?” the man shouted
harshly from the door.
Something had happened to her little
girl! Her husband was asking for the child!
Mrs. Waldstricker jumped out of bed quickly.
“I haven’t seen her,” she answered.
“Isn’t she home?”
Then Waldstricker believed. Elsie
had disappeared. She was not with her mother!
“She’s gone,” was all he said, and,
wheeling, went out.
Not one of the servants could tell
Madelene or the distracted mother any more than they
had told the father.
The search began without the slightest
clue of the child’s whereabouts. Elsie
had disappeared, as if she had been snatched into the
sky. The storm, already very severe, had thickened
the early twilight into dense darkness. The light
snow that had fallen earlier in the day to the depth
of several inches drove in swirling clouds before the
wind and piled in deep drifts, while the congealed
air pelted icy particles of frozen moisture into the
confused uproar upon forest and field. Fear that
the child had started out to find her mother and had
been overtaken by the blizzard obsessed Waldstricker.
He sent messengers in all directions, and himself
rode furiously through the snow inquiring everywhere.
Finding no trace of her at the neighboring houses,
he instituted a systematic search of the locality.
All the afternoon Young had sat with
Tessibel, most of the time in silence. She showed
no desire to talk, and he knew not what to say.
Watching from the sitting room window, Tess seemed
to find diversion in the wind-driven snow, as though
the blizzard’s riot met and matched the aching
bewilderment in her own breast.
Nor did she pay any attention to a
knock which resounded above the beating of the storm.
Deforrest went to the door and carried on an undertoned
conversation with some one outside. Then after
dispatching the caller, he went back to the girl.
“Tess,” he hesitated,
but his voice broke and he was unable to complete
his sentence. In responsive inquiry, she turned
from the window and looked up at him. The deep
dejection of her attitude depicted her despondency
and despair. The brown eyes, dull and lustreless,
staring out of the drawn white face, expressed the
hopeless wonderment the man had seen in the glazing
orbs of a stricken deer. A great wave of pity
welled up in him. How could he break this frozen
composure and bring to the overwrought heart the healing
blessing of flowing tears?
“Tessibel,” he continued,
sitting down, “what were you thinking about?”
“I was wondering what I could
do to ... hurt Waldstricker,” she replied, gripping
the arms of her chair. Then she rose suddenly,
throwing up her head. The intensity of her emotion
fanned the dull coals of hate in her eyes to a hard
brilliance and touched her white cheeks with vermilion.
Vivid, active, her beautiful face, passion-drawn and
cruel, red curls writhing and twisting upon her shoulders,
Tess seemed a veritable fury crying for vengeance.
She lifted clenched hands.
“I’ll hurt Waldstricker,”
she vowed. “God help me to do it!”
Springing to his feet, Young ejaculated:
“Don’t, Tess! You mustn’t!”
Turning away, she paced up and down
the room, muttering imprecations. Her companion
stood silent, unable to assuage her agony or rebuke
her vindictive words.
At length Tess stopped directly in front of him.
“I know you don’t like
me to feel that way about Waldstricker, but I can’t
help it. I hate him so!”
Then she went to the window and stared out into the
storm again.
After a moment’s hesitation,
Young touched her. Drawing her back, he held
her in his arms, attempting to soothe and quiet her
by murmured endearments.
“I’m awfully sorry, dear,”
he explained. “I must go to town. Helen’s
sent for me.”
Tess nodded indifferently. It
was all one to her now. She’d lost Boy,
and she was willing to be alone to plan how she could
punish his murderer.
“I’ll send Andy to you,”
said Young, leading her to a chair.
He went in search of the dwarf and
found the little man in his room huddled on the bed.
“Andy,” said Deforrest, “come here.”
Without a word the dwarf went to the lawyer.
“I’m going to Ithaca. Go down and
stay with Tess until I get back.”
He turned and went out, and Andy,
silent and sick at heart, followed him down the stairs.
Andy was not able to persuade Tess
to talk with him, but obeying Professor Young, he
stayed very near her. The blizzard howled and
banged outside, adding by its noisy commotion an element
of dread to the grief within.
About nine in the evening footsteps
sounded on the porch; the dwarf got up and went to
the door. Jake Brewer entered and closed the door
against the storm. The squatter took off his
hat and shook the snow from the top of it. He
looked, alternately, from the girl in the chair near
the window to the little man staring up at him.
“I come to speak to the brat,” he said.
“She ain’t very well,” answered
Andy.
Tessibel looked around.
“Sit down, Jake,” she invited. “The
night’s dreadful, isn’t it?”
Brewer coughed and remained silent.
“Can I do anything, Jake?” inquired the
dwarf, softly.
“Nope, it air only Tess can do it,” replied
the squatter.
Tessibel heard but remained in the same position.
“Tess air the only one can help,” repeated
Brewer.
The girl sank back in her chair, allowing her hands
to drop in her lap.
“What is it?” she asked listlessly.
“Ma Brewer air sick,”
said the squatter. “She air knowin’
ye air in trouble, but but ”
It seemed to the girl as if this Christmas-tide
had brought sorrow to everyone.
She rose to her feet, stiff from sitting
in the same position for so long a time.
“I’ll get her something, Jake,”
she said quickly.
“Ma an’ me know ye got
a lot of sorrow, brat,” choked the man, “but
Ma were a wonderin’ if ye’d run to the
shack fer a minute.” Noticing the
girl’s hesitation, “She’s awful sick
an’ mebbe if ye’d come, she’d feel
better.’”
“I’ll get your wraps, brat,” Andy
offered.
Both men helped Tessibel into her
things. She stood very quiet until Andy held
out her mittens.
“I’ll only be gone a few
minutes,” she promised the dwarf. “Come
on, Jake!”
And together they went out into the storm.